


Nut up, Winchester

by thedeadguyintheback



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadguyintheback/pseuds/thedeadguyintheback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester wasn't exactly Dad of the Year... but he had his moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nut up, Winchester

Ten year old Dean stood in the wooded clearing, eyes locked on the paper target feet away, the pistol heavy in his hands. He didn’t tremble with fear—he had long since learned not to, or face the wrath of his father—but his nerves were stretched like a rubber band. He stared down the gun sights at the target, and couldn’t move.  
John Winchester stood behind him, as ominous and awesome as ever. “Quit locking your elbows,” he instructed without a note of kindness. 

Dean adjusted his arms, but still found he could do nothing. John loomed over him.

“Nut up, Winchester. Pull the trigger.”

…

Twelve year old Dean stood over the struggling ghoul, pinned by the heavy oak bookshelf that Sammy had shoved over. The machete was no longer massive in his hands as it used to be, but its sharpened edge gleamed with authority and malice. 

John Winchester stood, watching impatiently. 

“Nut up, Winchester. Take its head off.”

…

Thirteen year old Dean stood facing the pretty blonde woman. Her face was smeared with blood, her fingers tipped with deadly claws, her luscious red lips pulled back in a hungry snarl. As he sighted the gun to the center of her face, she stepped towards Dean with a slow purposeful saunter.

John Winchester sat in a corner, a hand pressed firmly on his gut to stop the bleeding. He glared at Dean with frustration and disappointment.

“Nut up, Winchester. Kill her.”

…

Eighteen year old Dean sat at the bar next to his father, surveying the patrons with the usual amount of calm suspicion over the rim of his beer glass. There weren’t any monsters to hunt in this town, just some publicity hoax. So they’d relax for a bit, let Sam go to school for a few weeks before moving on. 

Just as the old juke box in the corner started crooning an old slow jazz hit called Fever, Dean’s eye was caught by slight movement. It was just a guy, Dean’s age with dark hair and bright blue eyes. He had a kind smile that reminded Dean of Mary Winchester, warm and friendly. He sat alone at a booth with a bottle of ale, and appeared deep in thought about something pleasant.

Dean had already had a few beers, so he hadn’t caught himself staring before an elbow to his ribs pulled him sharply out of his reverie. Here it comes, thought Dean, the derision, the disappointment, the no-son-of-mine-will…

“Nut up, Winchester. Go ask him to dance.”


End file.
